


nothing left to want

by celosiaa



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nausea, Statement withdrawal, Vomiting, Whump, once again, the archivist is having a bad time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:02:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27514276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celosiaa/pseuds/celosiaa
Summary: The Marks—all of them—burn like hot coals against the walls of his body, ensuring that he remembers none of it is his own, not anymore.Had it ever really been his?
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 37
Kudos: 217





	nothing left to want

It’s never been clearer to Jon than in these moments, these precious first few days in their refuge: Martin has been struggling for a long, long time.

The heaviness, the sinking weight of it all never truly leaves his face; a lifetime of grief now so clearly etched upon him, Jon wonders how he ever could have missed it before. Before Martin had come into sharp relief in his view—and Jon could see him, truly see him as if for the first time. The man who has always hidden his pain in smiles, kind words, cups of tea.

There are few smiles now. And hardly any words at all.

And still—still, of course Jon would find a way to make this about himself. Of course he would have to be selfish, _can’t even look after Martin for a few days, weeks, months—whatever he needs._ God knows Martin had been looking after him for far longer than Jon had ever realized; had ever appreciated. And now, in the thick of it all, Jon cannot even channel his focus into caring for him as well as he deserves. Instead—no—instead, he’s ended up outside again, shaking, shivering, sweating as the fog of the Lonely makes its way out of his lungs, leaving its Mark with every bitter breath.

The Marks—all of them—burn like hot coals against the walls of his body, ensuring that he remembers none of it is his own, not anymore. Had it ever really been his? Perhaps, in days far too long gone to recount. Before his first Mark from the Web, pulling him closer, choking choking always choking—

He leans forward and heaves—gagging against the emptiness of his stomach, against ribs no longer there, against the white-hot scar across his throat. Nothing to bring up, of course not. He cannot eat anymore, not in the way it used to mean for him, in the way he had managed to emaciate himself already. No—the Eye will not let him have that. No solace. Nothing until the Beholding itself has been fed.

“Jon?”

A sound from the house—muffled against the blood pounding in his ears, but the Eye is quick to inform him of its irritation. Cannot blame him, not at all. Jon had been _lying lying lying,_ spilling wretched falsehoods and half-truths to cover the shame of his hunger, of his lapse, of his weakness. And Martin had believed all of it—though he would never say, the disappointment in his eyes as he told him he’d taken up smoking again was palpable.

_Disappointment? Was it?_

_Or sadness?_

It hardly matters—even as Jon tries to get up, tries to reply to the repeated calling of his name from inside, he finds his vision shorting out at the edges. No choice, no choice now but to fall hard to his knees again, sending a shock of pain up through the ruin of his left hip that he cannot help but scream out against it.

_“Jon!”_

Running, panicked and slipping against the floorboards grows louder and louder before the door to the back garden swings open—and Jon knows then that he has been found out. _Disgusting, disgusting, he must think I’m disgusting—_

“Oh—oh Jon,” comes a shaking, worried voice instead.

_Worried?_

“Can you—can you hear me? Darling?”

_Worried worried he’s worried for me_

“Mmm—”

Not what he meant to say, but it’s all he can manage before his stomach turns over again—

“ _Christ_ —oh, Christ, Jon.”

Hurts hurts everything _hurts,_ blinds him, cannot tell which way is up anymore and he’s falling, choking on ink, blood, _don’t know I can’t see I can’t see—_

—

“—whatever may be left of that curse, or if it somehow remains in me…I cannot tell.”

Warm—so warm—not burning. Not falling, not anymore. Alone?

“What I do know is that I shall never be returning to those woods—not while the treeline still beckons me, day after day after waking nightmare of a day.”

_Martin. A statement._

A buzzing at the base of his skull tells him of the Eye’s pleasure, as he can see the fate of the statement giver—lost to the trees, to the woods, to the curse that had indeed followed him out—

_Oh, Martin._

“Statement…statement ends.”

Final words given in nothing more but a tearful whisper, Jon can feel the bouncing of Martin’s leg where it touches near to his own, where he must be lying on the sofa. Safehouse. Safe. House.

_Home, I’m home._

And Martin is hurting.

“Mm—Mar—”

“Oh—Jon, oh thank god,” comes the broken sigh of relief, and he feels his hand clasped between two larger ones, infinitely warmer than his own. “How do you feel? Is that—is that what you needed?”

_Needed._

_What I needed._

The stabbing pain of hunger in every scar has been muted down to a dull roar now—and he can see beyond the pain that has been closing over him like a curtain over the previous days. Barely, just barely—he’s broken the surface, come up for air.

His eyes allow him to see again.

Even if blurred without his glasses, Jon can make out the pale, shaking, still foggy form of Martin—dampness evident in his tone, as the Eye delightedly informs him that he read five statements in sequence just to make Jon breathe, breathe. To stop the writhing, pulsing, abomination of pain that he had so stubbornly hidden.

And why? To protect him?

_Excellent job of that._

“M’so…so sorry, Martin,” he managed to croak, every word a razor against his throat.

He can’t help it as the coughing starts up again, as Martin leans him forward to stop him gasping for air, as the ink begins to pour from him and into the tissue Martin presses against his lips. Guilt—crushing, overwhelming—but he could not do this for himself, not even this one thing. Knowing that is perhaps the worst of it.

Perhaps the Eye would not let him die, not really—but it had no qualms over making him suffer.

Starve it, and it starves you.

“There you are, you’re alright,” Martin hums from somewhere far, far past the renewed ringing in Jon’s ears. “I’ve got you. I’ll…I’ll read another one.”

“N-No, don’t—”

_Stop stop I know it hurts you please don’t hurt yourself more than you already have_

“Jon,” he says, in just that perfect way.

The way that tells him that Martin is stronger, far stronger than he had ever given him credit for.

“Listen to me. Listen. I refuse to let this tear you apart.”

Choking—a different kind; something…almost lovely. Crying over the idea that he could be loved.

That he _is_ loved.

He lets it carry him off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! come find me on tumblr @celosiaa if you want <3
> 
> -love, connor


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